Ayodhya in Agony: The Kingdom Without Rama
A King’s
Remorse and the Ocean of Separation
Simplified and faithful rendering
of
the Adi Kavya-44
Vanam Jwala
Narasimha Rao (October 21, 2026)
In the previous chapter, the forest of
Chitrakoota had slowly transformed into a dwelling sanctified by discipline,
devotion, and acceptance. Amid flowering trees and flowing waters, Sri Rama
shaped exile into a life of quiet purpose. Nature received him. The mountain
stood witness. The hermitage was consecrated. Yet while serenity settled upon
Chitrakoota, Ayodhya began to unravel. The departure that rooted Rama in the
forest left a kingdom rootless. What was peace there became anguish here. What
was renunciation in exile became desolation in the capital. The narrative now
turns from the stillness of Chitrakoota to the tremor of a city that had lost
its moral center.
Grief-stricken Sumantra and Guha stood
watching Sri Rama until he vanished from sight. Speaking only of him, absorbed
in the pain of separation, they lingered long before returning to their abodes.
After Sita, Rama, and Lakshmana crossed the Ganga, tidings of their progress
reached Guha day by day through messengers: the first night beneath a tree, the
second at Bharadwaja’s hermitage, the third upon the banks of the Yamuna, the
fourth toward Chitrakoota. On the fifth day, the account was complete.
Hearing all this, Sumantra, with Guha’s
leave, turned his chariot toward Ayodhya. Sorrow weighed upon him, yet the road
revealed fragrant forests, flowing rivers, and thriving towns. Though his heart
burned, his eyes could not deny the world’s beauty. Such is the human
condition: grief may cloud the spirit, but life continues to unfold before it.
The world does not halt for private anguish; it moves forward, indifferent yet
quietly instructive.
When Sumantra entered Ayodhya, he found
the city unnaturally silent. It appeared desolate, almost abandoned. No horses
neighed in the courtyards, no elephants stood adorned at gateways, no bustling
citizens filled the streets, no royal presence animated the avenues. The city
seemed scorched by the fire of Rama’s separation. With tears streaming down his
face, Sumantra drove through streets that felt as though they were smoldering
in grief. Citizens, their faces swollen with sorrow, stopped his chariot and anxiously
asked of Rama’s whereabouts.
Sumantra replied that, having obeyed Rama’s command on the banks of the Ganga, he had returned alone, for Rama had journeyed onward into exile. Hearing this, the people cried aloud, overcome with anguish. When righteous leadership departs, it is not merely a throne that falls vacant; the collective heart of a people feels orphaned. A kingdom may endure in structure, yet collapse in spirit. Some wept openly. Others lamented in hushed despair. Many stood stunned, unable to comprehend their loss. Gathering in small groups, they asked one another what remained to be done.
Several declared that life without Rama
was no life at all. At charities, sacrifices, sacred assemblies, and even
weddings, his name was uttered with tears. In every gathering arose the same
question: would they ever behold him again? Some reflected that without Rama
there was no happiness; others felt that without his presence there could be no
true liberation, no blessedness, no enduring good. Gradually a shared
conviction took root among them, that, only reunion with Rama could restore
meaning to their lives.
They cried out together: ‘For us who are
helpless, Sri Rama was as a father. If such a protector departs, who remains to
guide us? In distress, a father is refuge, and if he himself leaves, where
shall we turn? How unfortunate we are that a soul so righteous, so
compassionate, so noble-hearted had gone, leaving us thus to grieve! Rama
always reflected upon what would bring happiness to the people, what would be
dear to them, what would ensure their welfare, and he acted accordingly. He
guarded us like a father guards his children.’ Their lament was not merely for
a prince, but for a presence that embodied justice, affection, and moral
clarity.
Societies instinctively recognize
integrity. Titles may command obedience, but character alone commands love.
When leadership is rooted in dharma, people do not merely follow, but they feel
that they belong. At this juncture, Andhra Valmiki Vavilikolanu Subbarau, in
his Mandaram, observes with poignancy that one who has once experienced
the living presence of the Divine through devotion and then loses that
awareness is indeed most unfortunate. Thus began Ayodhya’s long night, a
kingdom awakening to the irreversible cost of a single decision.
On the day Sri Rama departed for the
forest, many citizens had fallen to the ground like creepers severed at the
root. When they later heard the sound of Sumantra’s returning chariot, a tremor
of hope stirred within them. For a fleeting moment, some imagined that Sri
Ramachandra himself had returned. But as they gazed from their windows and saw
the chariot without Rama, that hope dissolved into deeper despair. They lacked
even the strength to step into the streets. Sumantra, unable to endure the
sorrow in their eyes, and ashamed that they might question him as to why he had
left Rama in the forest, a question for which he possessed no answer, covered
his face with a cloth, and drove swiftly toward the royal palace, hoping to
avoid being stopped.
Even after alighting, he moved hurriedly,
fearing that any pause would invite the crowd to surround him. Meanwhile,
citizens gathered in anxious clusters, waiting to hear of Rama and to learn of
their king’s condition. When a nation undergoes moral shock, silence spreads
more swiftly than proclamation. In such an hour, a messenger carries not merely
news, but the weight of unspoken blame. From modest dwellings to seven-tiered
mansions, from the homes of nobles to the inner quarters of royalty, women stood
upon balconies and terraces, searching the road below, and wept when Rama was
nowhere to be seen.
Their voices dissolved into broken sounds
of anguish as they looked helplessly at one another. Long streams of tears
flowed, as though grief itself had found visible channels. The collyrium (eye-lotion)
lining their eyes melted and ran, leaving pale streaks upon their faces while
tears traced burning paths across their cheeks. Within the inner palaces, where
the queens of King Dasaratha remained near him, sorrow was restrained but no
less intense. They wept softly, subdued by proximity to the stricken king.
Among themselves they wondered how Sumantra would answer Kausalya. Whether he
spoke or remained silent, what comfort could there be? How were they to
continue living, and for what purpose?
They reflected upon Kausalya’s endurance,
that she still bore the weight of her body despite separation from Sri Rama,
and they marveled at the strength such survival demanded. If grief of this
magnitude consumed the heart, what meaning remained in sustaining life? How
could such sorrow be borne? These questions lingered not only in whispers but
in the silence between them. Grief, in its extremity, does not merely wound the
heart, but it unsettles the very instinct to endure. In moments of irreversible
loss, even the act of breathing demands quiet courage.
As the royal women thus lamented,
Sumantra, hearing their sorrow, entered the palace, which seemed scorched by an
unseen fire of anguish. Passing through successive chambers, he reached the
eighth inner apartment. There he beheld King Dasaratha, spirit broken, body
weakened, consumed by separation from his son, and seated within the white
palace, yet devoid of royal radiance. Sumantra bowed low before him and began
to convey all the words spoken by Sri Rama.
Dasaratha listened without interruption.
As Sumantra concluded, the king’s mind, overwhelmed by agitation, gave way, and
he collapsed to the ground in a faint. The women present cried out in distress
and rushed to raise him. With Sumitra’s support, Kausalya lifted the fallen
monarch and reminded him that Sumantra had returned as the messenger of Sri
Ramachandra, he who accomplished even the impossible. If the messenger had come
back from the forest, there was yet news to be heard.
But sorrow soon gave way to reproach.
Kausalya questioned her husband as to why he now shrank in shame, as though
suddenly aware of the unrighteousness of his deed. With restrained anguish, she
spoke of his fear of Kaikeyi, for whose sake he had not even dared inquire
after his own son, and urged him to gather courage and speak openly. Her words
carried the weight of accumulated grief: once a rash decision was enacted,
regret cannot reverse it; and when accountability was delayed, suffering
deepens. The palace, which once echoed with royal authority, now bore witness
to the consequences of unguarded promise and unexamined resolve.
Thus, Ayodhya’s sorrow, once dispersed
among its people, settled fully within the palace walls. The grief of the
kingdom found embodiment in the collapse of its king. Having spoken, Kausalya
herself was overcome by intensified anguish. She too fainted and fell to the
ground. The women of the inner chambers, beholding her condition, cried aloud
in despair, and their lamentation filled the halls. After some time, Dasaratha
regained consciousness. Turning immediately to Sumantra, his longing fixed upon
his eldest son, he sought to hear every detail.
Sumantra approached respectfully,
prepared to recount all that he had witnessed. The king began to question him
with restless urgency. How was Sri Rama, who had been destined for royal
comfort, passing his days in exile? Beneath what trees did he dwell? Upon what
harsh ground did he rest? In which lonely forests did he wander? How did those
tender youths endure wildernesses filled with serpents and wild beasts? He
inquired especially about Sita, delicate, devoted, unacquainted with hardship,
untouched by guile, and wondered how she had descended from the chariot and
walked into the forest depths.
Each question revealed not merely
curiosity, but the torment of imagination. For a parent, separation is pain;
yet imagining the lost comfort of a beloved child deepens that pain beyond
measure. Dasaratha then spoke words of praise to Sumantra, observing that he
had been blessed with the rare fortune of witnessing with his own eyes Rama and
Lakshmana entering the forest. Such a sight, the king declared, had sanctified
his very birth. Yet praise quickly yielded again to longing. He asked Sumantra
to recount in detail all that had transpired when Sri Rama commanded him to
return.
‘What had Rama said? What words had Sita spoken? How had Lakshmana borne himself? Where had they chosen to reside, and by what means did they sustain their bodies?’ In these questions lay more than inquiry. When the presence of the noble cannot be attained, remembrance of their words and deeds becomes a form of solace. In separation, memory itself assumes the character of prayer. Seeing the king thus overwhelmed, Sumantra too was overcome with grief. Tears rose and choked his voice; his words faltered and broke as he began to speak.
He conveyed first the message of Sri
Rama: that he bowed in reverence to his father, offering repeated prostrations
in spirit at his feet; that he sent salutations, according to propriety, to all
elders and well-wishers; and that he inquired with affection about the welfare
of the women of the inner palace. Thereafter, Sumantra said, Rama had
instructed him to approach Mother Kausalya, bow fully before her, ask after her
well-being, and only then convey his words. Sumantra then repeated Rama’s
message to his mother.
‘Rama urged her to continue performing
all duties as before, not to neglect sacred observances on account of sorrow,
and to tend the consecrated fires at the proper times. She was to remain
steadfast in her dharma as a devoted wife, not to withdraw from Dasaratha in
resentment, nor to dwell upon the suffering caused under Kaikeyi’s influence.
He pleaded her to relinquish pride in noble lineage and to conduct herself in a
manner that would not wound Kaikeyi’s heart, who by then stood in equal status
as queen. Even in exile, Rama’s concern rested not upon his own hardship, but
upon the preservation of harmony in the household.
Sumantra continued, recounting that Sri
Rama, his eyes filled with tears, had further instructed him thus: Kausalya was
to remember that Kaikeyi’s son would be the future king. Rama had observed, that
Kings were rendered venerable not merely by seniority but by charity and
righteous conduct. Therefore, she was to keep firmly in mind the principles of
Raja Dharma. When Bharata returned, she was to inquire after his welfare on
Rama’s behalf and to address him with the dignity due to a reigning monarch.
Sumantra also conveyed what Rama desired
Kausalya to communicate to Bharata: that he should act with fairness toward all
his mothers, harbor no thoughts that would cause distress to their aged father,
and enjoy royal privilege only along the path indicated by him. Even in exile,
Rama’s concern rested upon preserving order within the household and the
kingdom. His words bore no trace of grievance, only an unwavering commitment to
harmony. True nobility reveals itself most clearly when wronged, it seeks
order, not revenge.
The palace thus heard the magnanimity of
the one who had departed. Rama had further asked that Bharata be told to regard
Kausalya, whose love for her son ran deep, as he would his own mother. Just as
a mother’s affection toward her child was natural, so too should Kausalya’s
love for Rama never be misjudged as partiality. Having spoken these words,
Sumantra said, Sri Ramachandra had lowered his head, his eyes reddened like
blossoming lotuses and brimming with tears. Overcome by emotion, he could speak
no further and fell silent. In that silence lay his resolve: though wronged, he
guarded relationships from fracture, refusing to let affection become a seed of
division.
Sumantra then recounted the words of
Lakshmana, whose tone had differed sharply. His voice, he said, trembled with
indignation, and his eyes burned with restrained fury. Lakshmana had asked that
the king be questioned: what offence had the eldest son, Sri Ramachandra,
committed that he should be banished to the forest? Was it because he was not
Kaikeyi’s child that such affliction had been imposed? A command unworthy of
execution had been accepted as binding, and a deed that ought never to have
been done had been performed as though it were righteous duty. Thus spoke
Lakshmana, unable to reconcile obedience with justice.
Lakshmana further told Sumantra that: ‘Perhaps
Dasharatha might say that, it was not wrong to fulfil a boon once granted?’ If
so, did Rama at that time ask to be exiled? Did Bharata then ask to be crowned
king? Were the boons asked then identical to what was demanded later? Did the
king question this? Even if he argues they were the same, how could one grant
boons that were against scripture, harmful to others, condemned by the world? Scriptures
forbid abandoning one’s only and eldest son. Can one fulfil a vow that violates
dharma. By what law does a younger son inherit the throne, which by all means
was due to the elder? Should Bharata not have refused? Since the king
transgressed scriptural propriety, there was no penance for such a sin.’
Yet Lakshmana’s vehemence was not born of
rebellion alone, but it arose from wounded devotion. When authority appears to
deviate from justice, the heart most loyal to righteousness feels the first
sting. He had further declared, Sumantra recounted, that no fault lay in Rama.
If destiny were invoked as explanation, then what cause had set destiny in
motion? Fate itself did not operate without antecedent reason. If the king had
consented knowingly to such an act, why then was he consumed by regret? Tears,
Lakshmana suggested, were silent witnesses against the decision itself.
Sumantra continued to relay Lakshmana’s
words. The princes, he had said, grieved not merely for their exile but for the
manner in which it had been decreed, contrary to moral order and undertaken
without due reflection. If an action were truly righteous, why should it be
followed by lamentation? Anticipating reproach for speaking harshly of his
father, Lakshmana had confessed that, in that moment, the filial bond itself
seemed eclipsed by a deeper allegiance. One who committed so grievous an act
could scarcely be recognized in the fullness of that sacred relation. For him,
he had declared, Rama alone embodied elder brother, father, guide, and kin.
Apart from Rama, no other bond held meaning. In that fierce declaration lay the
measure of his character: lineage receded before loyalty to embodied dharma.
Thus, the voices of the forest, Rama’s
restraint and Lakshmana’s flame-like indignation, seemed to resound within the
palace of Ayodhya. Lakshmana had further commanded that the king be addressed
in his own words: if Dasharatha still desired that the title of ‘King retain
meaning after abandoning Sri Rama, let him declare how he intended to win the
hearts of the people in comparison with Rama. For this act, Lakshmana had said,
perhaps only Kaikeyi and Bharata might find cause for satisfaction, and none
else. Whether the people were pleased or not, such a deed had shaken the very
fitness to rule.
Never, Lakshmana asserted, had even an
unrighteous sovereign committed an act so opposed to moral order. Therefore, if
kingship were to retain dignity, the king ought to relinquish it. In
Lakshmana’s protest lay not merely anger at a decision, but a challenge to the
moral legitimacy of power itself; for authority severed from righteousness
stands diminished in spirit. Having conveyed the distinct tones of Rama and
Lakshmana, Sumantra then described the scene he had witnessed. Sri Rama had
spoken with gentleness and filial reverence, Lakshmana with burning intensity.
Sita, unaccustomed to sorrow and overwhelmed by events, appeared bewildered, as
though the world around her had lost direction.
Sumantra continued and said: Sita uttered
little. Tears flowed silently as she beheld her husband’s grief-stricken face.
Lakshmana stood vigilant, bow in hand, eyes fixed unwaveringly upon his
brother. Rama himself stood with folded hands, tears descending, not for his
own hardship but for the pain his departure caused others. Sita’s gaze had
moved between Sumantra and the departing chariot, heavy with unspoken anguish.
In that forest clearing stood three living ideals: devotion, loyalty, and
responsibility, and each bearing sorrow for the sake of the other. Their
suffering was not self-regarding; it arose from love.
Thus, ended Sumantra’s account of that
parting in the forest. The palace, already burdened with grief, bore the added
weight of remembered virtue and unspoken reproach. The king had heard of Rama’s
obedience, Lakshmana’s indignation, and Sita’s silent endurance. Yet the
narrative of exile was not complete. Hearing these words, Dasaratha urged
Sumantra to recount what followed. Sumantra then continued: Rama and Lakshmana
matted their hair into ascetic locks and clothed themselves in bark and kusa
grass.
>>>> Photographs courtesy Rama Bhakta Vijaya Raghava Dasu
{{From my Published Book ‘Simplified
and Faithful Rendering of the Adi Kavya’
Valmiki Ramayana: The Greatest Epic
(Bala and Ayodhya Kandas)}}
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